Ocean of Noise
by Meiveva Sirenice
Summary: She no longer had hope for redemption; this was the end- My version of Ziva's departure, written for NFA challenge: A Farewell to Arms; Tiva & McGiva


The world unfolds and at its center is her father, her Abba, desecrated and dropped to the floor.

His name rips out of her. Her knees hit the floor. She pulls his weight into her arms. Tucking his head under her chin, she holds him like he held her as a little girl, rocks him back and forth, back and forth, to the beat of her prayer. Words contort to slip past the debris of her heart, and she squeezes blood between her fingers, searching for warmth.

In the end, she was not there. In every moment before she was there, letting him lead her, letting him cup her face and kiss the top of her head after every desert, but she missed the end. Her body shakes, tries to press its breath into him, tries to hold the warm scraps of his soul together but it is not enough. It has never been enough.

When everyone is gone, she remains collapsed in the cold and the quiet, unable to break it, whispering _"Abba, Abba_."

…

When she stands, it is because they want to take him away.

"I need the body now."  
"I gave you time."  
"I have to sleep sometime tonight."  
"You have to let go."

She intends to fight, shout white-knuckled that they will not pry the remainder from her hands until they can bury her at his side but while she is searching for words and a fist they take him, and she cannot find it in herself to follow. She lets go of his hand.

"We have to send him back to Israel, make sure no one knows what happened."

Now she has left the desert. Every piece of her home has been removed from her life.

She is full of silence. It is one part familiar silence, the silence of national security and secrets, and another part a silence she has never become comfortable with, aching silence that smells like rotting red-soaked wood in Gibbs' basement.

She drifts outside, toward darkness.

…

At midnight, Tim leaves to search for her. He withdraws from Tony, Gibbs, and Vance, slips out of the hospital and heads back to the house.

When he pulls over, only a few sirens are left. Hands in pockets and head dropped, he walks slowly through the dim rooms. The bodies are gone.

But her car is still in the drive-way. He calls her seven times and leaves three messages while sweeping the neighborhood.

_Hi Ziva, it's Tim. Are you okay? I went by the house and your car was still there. Where did you go? I understand if you don't want to talk, just text me if you're safe._

_It's Tim again. I'm a little worried. I just want to make sure you're okay. Please let me know where you are. I don't think you should be wandering around right now. You need to be somewhere familiar. Please let me know where you are._

_Please call me back as soon as you get this. I don't want you to be alone, or at least not alone and lost. Please call me back. _

He finds her on a corner, leaning on a stop sign. Her knees are pulled to her, her head tipped back against the pole while she stares somewhere over the skyline. He parks, steps lightly through the grass and sinks down next to her. She has not blinked, her gaze has not flickered toward him once, and she does not move now.

He says nothing. He watches starlit tears roll down her cheeks one by one, like stringing pearls, and for a long time, they sit.

She sobs, once. The sound pops in the air like a muffled gunshot. Her hand trembles, and she curls over her kneecap, shuts her eyes, closes her mouth again. He turns to her and puts a hand on her back. Another sound slips through the corner of her mouth and she lowers her head to her knees.

He put his arm around her shoulders, lets her lean her head against him, and she turns her face into his neck to stifle the sound. She will not let him hold her, will not let her whole body face him though he is turned to her. He closes his eyes. She breathes like a hurricane: heavy harsh unrelenting and then, all at once, drowned.

He drives her home and kisses her goodnight on the cheek. She squeezes his hand but cannot look into his eyes. He hears her turn the lock, and, after a few moments, he leaves.

She lays on top of the sheets with her hands at her sides. She cannot sleep. Her lungs and mind and hands are empty. She does not move until morning. She is full of white noise.

…

When light comes through her windows, she flinches from it, breath stuttering in her throat. She can barely move under the weight of her chest.

_I asked you to take me in the night, God._

She stares through the window at the light filling the skyline's cracks.

_I asked you let me die all at once, not by pieces._

She puts her hands on the panes, but they are not warm.

_Why would you leave only my body behind?_

The sun keeps rising, and she stares until she is blind and her eyes sting. And finally the weight on her chest is too much and she screams. She screams and falls to her knees, bangs her open palms on the window in prayer, "How could you take everything?"

…

She waits in silence until the burn of her words had dissipated. Then she dresses and leaves for temple to find God. She cannot find God here.

And God answers her in the candles: she will burn. She will burn like her scream, she will burn for her father, just as she always has. She will burn out.

…

It is empty when she visits. She makes no noise when she walks to him and puts her hand on the door. She closes her eyes as the cold of the steel rushes through her and erase all her words except: "I will not fail."

She does not let the air back into her lungs.

"Would you like to see him?"

She opens her eyes, breathes again at the sound of Ducky's voice, and declines.

"Farewells are always difficult; closure even more so."

And she thinks he is right; she is not finished yet, and this is all she has to say. She leaves.

The elevator opens on their floor, and she meets Tim's eyes for a moment before turning her head down. His eyes never leave her, but he waits until the door closes.

"Ziva—,"

"Stop," she whispers.

"If there's anything you need, let me know. I'll get you whatever you need. I'll do anything to help you get through this. Just let me know how I can help you, and I'll do it."

"Stop."

He reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she pulls back sharply, staring at him.

"Stop."

He withdraws. "I'm sorry."

She sighs, looks up. "I will be fine. You do not need to help me."

"I _want _to help you."

She shakes her head and mutters, "I should never have been so weak."

"You are not weak, you are human. Please don't pull away now."

She does not respond.

"Ziva, you are my best friend. I will do whatever you want except ignore you. I will be with you no matter what." He takes her hand, but she will not look at him. The elevator doors open, and he gets out.

…

Even under orders from Gibbs, she cannot bear to sit still in Tony's apartment. Once Schmiel is asleep, it is too much. When Tony gets home, he finds her sipping tequila.

"Didn't think that was your drink of choice," he quips.

She glares at him, taking another sip.

He gently takes the bottle from her hands. "Don't try to drink it away, Ziva." He puts the bottle up. "It doesn't work. Trust me."

"I like how it tastes." She chews each word carefully before speaking.

He resists the urge to laugh. "No one likes the taste of tequila."

"I am going to bed." She does not give him the chance to reply.

Tony watches her leave, listening for the click of the door. When he hears it, he goes to bed.

He wakes up to the sound of motion, frantic, erratic breathing, and knows immediately. He calls her name, takes her wrists to hold her still, and when she wakes her eyes are a wildfire. He watches her pupils shrink.

She yanks her wrists away. "Leave me alone."

He knows he cannot fight her, so he returns to his bed. But he cannot sleep. He returns, watches her thrash in her sleep, and when screams begin to bubble up on her lips, he holds her shoulders until she is calm again.

She wakes up once more, eyes flung wide, eyelashes flinging tears, murmuring something he knows is English.

He kneels by the bed. "What is it?"

Her eyes are glassy. "I always failed him. I failed to be a good daughter, I failed to love him, I failed to be loyal. I tried, I promise, but I failed. And I failed to save him. This is my punishment for my failures. I failed. I have always failed."

He takes her face in his hands. "Ziva, you are not a failure. You have done so much here, working with me and Gibbs and Tim and Abby and everyone. You have done so much good."

"I failed to save him, just as I failed to save my mother and Tali and Ari. I cannot save anyone, not even myself." She squeezes her eyes shut, her words catching on tears.

"You saved me," he whispers, almost inaudibly. "When Kate died, I thought I could never love anyone like that again, but you saved me. You saved me for hope, Ziva, and I'll save you."

But she is already drifting away. He sets her head back on the pillow, brushes her cheek gently, and returns to his seat to watch her. Eventually, he goes back to his room for a few hours of sleep. He does not think she will remember. She doesn't.

…

When she pulls Tony's gun out, she feels fire coursing through her. She wants him to come. She wants him to shoot her. She wants to put a bullet through his chest and let a few through her own as well. It is a good ending. It is a good ending for an empty body.

When Gibbs walks through the door, he sees the fire. It does not fade. He tells Tony to keep an eye on her as he leaves. She pretends not to hear.

…

She can feel the desert burning her skin, but underneath she is cold. When they put him in the ground, she kisses the earth.

"I forgive you," she whispers. "I hope you will forgive me. I love you, Abba."

She does not cry until that night after she has left Adam's bed for her own. She cries until she cannot anymore, and she does not sleep.

In the morning, she calls Tim: "I need your help."

...

Weeks pass in silence. Once he explains to her how the computer works, she feels no need for conversation. Tim watches her out of the corner of his eye, studying how the lines in her face deepen, the way she squints, looking for cracking.

"Go home," she says without looking up at one a.m.

"I'm fine."

"Tim, go home. You do not need to stay."

"If you're staying, I need to stay."

She rolls her eyes. "I can finish tonight. You go home."

"I'll go home when you go home."

She huffs in frustration and goes back to work. He smiles. It has become routine to have this argument.

At two a.m., she falls asleep. Tim pulls a blanket out of his drawer and crosses to her desk. He lifts her head off the keyboard and leans her back in her chair, folds her hands in her lap, and throws the blanket over her. "Goodnight Ziva."

…

She knows they look at her, even though she keeps her expression is flawless, exactly as it is supposed to be. She can feel them searching under her skin for where she has moved her heart. Abby is the worst. Her eyes fix on her like a microscope, pushing through the boundaries of her cells to examine her. She repeats "I am fine" to deflect their gazes. She knows it will not keep them away forever, not even a minute, but she cannot work under their eyes. She cannot focus. Some days she does not want to leave her house for fear of those eyes.

…

"You don't sleep enough."

"I am fine."

"You never leave. I'm not getting enough sleep; there's no way you are."

"You are free to go."

"You know I won't until you do."

"I do not want your help if it is at your expense. I am fine. If you are not, you do not need to help me."

"I want to help you, but that includes ensuring you are healthy, and you aren't getting enough sleep."

"I can take care of myself."

"You never go home, Ziva."

"It is none of your business. Let me be."

…

Some days she sleeps under her desk. She tells Gibbs she has paperwork to finish, tells Tim she is going to sleep tonight, and she waits until everyone leaves. There is a pillow and blanket under her desk, where the dark is perfect.

She does not want to go back to her apartment. It is full of the smell of that night. She has sold her car as well, cannot stand the reflections she sees in the mirrors. Instead, she closes her eyes in the perfect dark and sees nothing.

Tony wakes her once in the early morning. "What are you doing here?"

She crawls out from under the blanket. "I was here late finishing paperwork, and it was not worth the time to go home."

Suspicion is scrawled all over his face, but he says nothing.

"Why are you here so early?"

The windows are only dusky blue with light preceding the sun.

He frowns slightly. "Paperwork." He turns toward his desk but jerks back to face her. "You shouldn't sleep here. You can stay at my place if you need to."

"That is very kind of you, Tony, but I have a place to stay."

He sits at his desk. "Alright."

She knows he does not believe her, but she knows he will not ask. Eventually she will invite him to the warehouse to work with her and Tim, but not now. She is not ready for his anger yet.

The next morning, he leaves a foam pad under her desk with a note: _sweet dreams._

…

On Sunday, she goes to Gibbs's basement. He hands her a mason jar of bourbon, and she mutters a thank you into the drink. She watches him carve out the ribs of his boat, focusing on her ribs expanding and contracting in time.

When he notices her shivering, he gives her his Marines sweatshirt. She pulls it over her with a smile, closing her eyes and inhaling his scent.

For a long time, they say nothing. They do not need to. She keeps her eyes closed and listens to the rhythm of his work, and she feels at home.

Eventually, he sits next to her on the stairs and holds his mug up. She clinks her jar against it, and they both drink. She sets her jar on the step and leans on her knees.

"I am sorry to be such a burden."

"You've never been a burden." He kisses the top of her head. "Always come to me."

That night, when Tim remarks she smells of sawdust, she smiles.

…

"I never forgave him," she murmurs on a Saturday night or Sunday morning, gazing absentmindedly at her screen.

"What?" Tim whispers, half-hoping she won't hear.

Her gaze focuses on him. "My father asked me to forgive him. Before he died. He asked me to forgive him for our past, and I did not give it to him. I let him die."

She takes a sip of cold coffee.

"I always thought I would be given a chance to make things as they were when I was young. I did not expect this hopelessness."

"There's still hope," he says softly.

"How? My father is not here to love or be loved."

He shifts in his chair. "Personally, I believe in an afterlife. I think your father will know if you forgive him."

"That is very sweet, Tim, but I do not know if I believe in an afterlife. And what use is it if he is not here? I will never be able to share that love again."

"I think your father knew you loved him. He asked for your forgiveness, so he must have had some hope, right? I think he loved you, and I think he knew you loved him. That's why he came back."

She smiles, tight-lipped, and squeezes back tears. "Thank you Tim." She stands, walks over to him, and kisses him on the cheek. "Maybe it is not so hopeless after all."

As she turns away, he takes her arm. "Good luck in Berlin."

"Thank you. I wish you could come."

"So do I, but you and Tony will do fine. My phone is always on if you need anything."

She takes his hand in both of hers. "Thank you for everything you have done. I could not have found Bodnar without you. Sleep while I am away."

He promises he will, but as she leaves he thinks it is a promise he cannot keep. He will not be able to sleep as long as she is so far away.

…

People are not purified in death. She has known this since she can remember, yet the hope of memorializing her father seeped in.

When Orli is out of sight, she closes her eyes and presses her fingers to her temples, trying to remember how her father used to dance with her mother, but she was so young, and it is difficult to place faces with hands and kind words.

Eventually she finds a memory: her parents washing the dishes, father loading and mother rinsing. Her mother hums a tune to the familiar rhythm of their work and her father taps his foot.

"Do you have more work tonight?" her mother asks, her voice running a little high, a little breathy.

Her father smiles. "Nothing that cannot be done tomorrow."

Orli reminds her that if there is an afterlife, it runs parallel to this one; they never cross.

…

She and Tony share a bed in Berlin. He pretends to be asleep, but she knows he is not. She knows he remembers her nightmares, that he is watching over her, but she has not woken from a nightmare in weeks.

She can still feel the warmth of him in her hands, her arms, and there is a part of her that wants to clasp him and find the warmth again. But she recognizes it as the same warmth she felt with Adam, and she will not give in again. He means too much.

There is no warmth in burning, only heat, the heat of a desert with no water. She wants to be warm like the candles of the menorah. She thinks that maybe one day she could be warm with him. Maybe one day she will not be distracted from his eyes. But not now.

She closes her eyes on the ceiling but turns to face him in her sleep.

…

She is afraid he will tell her he loves her. She can tell he has been working towards it, and when he takes her hand she flinches into the headlights. She does not want to tell him that she cannot love him, that they are both too unfamiliar with love to share it. She could potentially, but hope is a cruel thing and she will not tell him this.

Then there is light and rush and crack and sear and glass and screech and Ilan standing over her. She wants to tell him that he cannot steal all her 'I love you's but words cannot get past her chest. She uses her bullets instead.

…

Tim drives her home from the hospital.

"No," she says quietly as he puts on his blinker.

"What?"

"I do not want to go home."

He stops at a red light and turns to her. "Where do you want to go?"

She takes a shaky breath, puts her hand over her shoulder. "I do not want to impose, but might I stay at your place?"

He reaches over and takes her hand. "Of course."

She smiles wanly. "Thank you Tim."

When they walk into his apartment, he tells her he will sleep on the couch.

"That is not necessary. We are adults; it will be fine."

"Ziva, it's really no trouble."

"I cannot come to your home and force you out of your bed. I will sleep on the couch."

He sighs. "Fine, we'll share the bed. I'll lay out some clothes for you."

He disappears into the bedroom, and she takes a shower. When she gets out, there is a Johns Hopkins shirt and shorts on the bed. She dresses, tells him she is going to sleep. A few hours later, he climbs into bed, a wide margin between them.

…

She screams. It sounds like a sniper shot and shattering glass, and they both wake.

"Ziva." He turns to her, puts his hand lightly on her shoulder.

Her breathing is ragged, and she puts her hand to her face, feels that her cheeks are wet. She does not acknowledge him.

"Ziva, are you awake?"

Her gaze flickers to him, eyes blown wide. She cannot speak through the tears. She gasps.

He wraps his arms around her, and she holds him tightly, burying her face in his neck. She sobs. He rubs her back, whispering that it will be okay.

"I am close." Her voice is muffled by his shirt. "so close. I only want it to end."

"It will end," he whispers into her hair. "but you don't have to finish it."

She pulls back to look at him. "I have to. This is the only way to bury my father." It is only fitting that a man who dealt death in life should be honored with one.

"Okay." He tucks her head back into the crook of his neck. "I will be with you no matter what."

He holds her while she cries until she falls asleep in his arms.

…

She won't believe it's real until she feels his pulse is gone. And the white noise grows with every swing of her fist, every hit of his, until she cannot hear anymore, and he is swallowed by the sea. They all look at her with strange eyes, but she cannot feel them through the white noise.

…

Afterwards she is filled with an unfamiliar silence. Perhaps it is not even silence; the aching emptiness has been filled with something softer. An ocean of noise.

It fills her every day like tide, comes unceasingly. She lays on her couch and watches bad television or she lays on her bed and reads bad books. Tony and Tim and Abby have all tried to take her places, make her smile again. Gibbs brings her good books.

She calls Tim when she has nightmares, and he talks to her until she can fall asleep again. He tells her it will be okay, that everything will get better, that it's over now, but she doesn't believe him. This time the nightmares do not stop.

…

She knows she has to breathe. She knows she has to do this. "I am leaving."

The air in Gibbs's basement is still.

"Leaving?" Abby's voice cracks.

Breathe. "I am leaving NCIS. I will not be an agent any longer."

Tony crosses his arms, frowning. "Why?"

"I need to remake my home. With my father, I lost all ties to my homeland. I need to start again. I am leaving for New York tomorrow. I do not know where I will go from there."

The ribs of Gibbs's boat creak. Ducky stands, crosses the basement and kisses her on the cheek. "I wish you the best of luck, my dear. Stay in touch."

"I will, Ducky," she murmurs.

Abby hugs her, tears trickling down her chin. Palmer starts with a handshake that transforms into a hug. Tony kisses the top of her head.

"You will always be my best friend," he whispers.

She reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek. "It is not time for tears, Tony. You are my family; I am not leaving you."

He hugs her, steps back with the rest.

Gibbs smiles at her and nods, and she returns the gesture.

"Thank you all for being my family." She looks down. "You have changed my life in ways I cannot fathom, and I hope to come back one day. I love you all dearly. Goodbye."

She almost runs up the stairs; she does not think she can bear their sadness anymore. But she needs to be away from all of it, go to a place that does not run with her blood.

As she walks out the front door, she hears footsteps running after her.

"Ziva, wait. Wait just a second." Tim catches the door behind her as she turns to him. For a moment, he only looks at her, saying nothing. Then: "I understand that you have to go."

He looks down. She waits.

"But I hope you'll come back too. I hope you'll stay in touch."

"Of course, Tim." She cups his face with her hands as his voice breaks. "I will never let you go, just as you have never let me go."

He meets her gaze, lets go of the door and takes her hands. "I love you."

She glances down for a moment, then kisses him on the cheek. "Come looking for me."

"I will."

She turns, and he drops her hands, watches her walk to her car, drive down the street, disappear.

Two weeks later, he gets a letter: _I love you too. _

He goes looking for her.


End file.
